


Anchored/Adrift

by thisbluegirl



Category: Leverage, White Collar
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flogging, Implied past noncon/dubcon, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Neal has issues, Oral Sex, Pining, got a little carried away with the porn..., mild spoilers for s2e9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-03-17 05:30:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3517214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbluegirl/pseuds/thisbluegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot and Neal met a long time ago, when Eliot was still a recovery specialist and Neal was just cutting his teeth as a con artist and art thief. Eliot got Neal out of a few tight spots and learned a little bit about Neal’s need for approval from older men. When Peter shuts Neal out, when Neal goes off the rails, he calls Eliot and Eliot – well, Eliot takes him apart and puts the pieces back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wherein Neal Can't Cope

            The day Neal Caffrey almost killed Agent Fowler, Eliot Spencer got a phone call. The raw, broken voice on the other end of the line just said “ _Please_ , Eliot. Now?”

            An hour and a half later, the door to Neal’s apartment swung open before Eliot could knock. Eliot had known it would be bad – Neal only ever called when he was desperate – but he hadn’t quite anticipated _this_. Neal’s eyes were wild, unfocused, the lean lines of his body seemed electrified. His face was streaked with charcoal, his hair unruly and out of place. Eliot stepped forward and reached for Neal, but Neal held out an arm, keeping Eliot at bay. After a moment of regarding Eliot with a mix of panic and fear, Neal stepped back to let Eliot into the apartment. Eliot glanced around the room – overturned chair in the kitchen, broken wineglass, shredded paper, wrecked canvases, bullets ( _bullets?_ ) scattered across the floor.

            Eliot had seen Neal on the verge of losing control before, but he had never seen Neal this way. Neal seemed to be coming apart at the seams, like he was trying to climb out of his own skin. Eliot was used to being the one who broke open Neal’s usual mask of half-amused indifference _before_ helping Neal put it all back together, but this time...

            Eliot grabbed Neal’s biceps and pulled him close, pinning him against his chest. Neal struggled in Eliot’s grasp.

            “Eliot,” Neal breathed, “I can’t…”

            “Can’t what?” Eliot growled, loosening his hold.

            “Can’t keep this up. I can’t do it anymore. I almost killed Fowler today.”

            “I thought that’s what you wanted.”

            “I thought I did, too. I thought he killed Kate.”

            “He didn’t?”

            “He says he didn’t. Peter believes him.”

            “But you don’t.”

            “No. I don’t… I don’t _know_ ,” his voice cracked. “If he didn’t kill Kate, then the explosion was Kate’s idea. It… it _can’t_ be. I heard her voice on the black box recording. She was asking him about the plan. If it wasn’t Fowler, who was it?”

            “Shhhh,” Eliot murmured. “You’ll find ‘em. Peter’ll help you find ‘em.” He pulled Neal closer and pressed his lips against Neal’s ear. “Don’t fight me.”

            Neal stilled in Eliot’s grip and his breathing hitched.

            “Please, Eliot,” he whispered.

            A small, reluctant smile crept across Eliot’s lips. He hated to see Neal in this kind of pain. But Eliot could take this pain and transform it. For Eliot, physical pain was something to withstand, something to fight through; for Neal, the pain burned down all his walls, let the true Neal breathe. It was cathartic. _Conquer the body, conquer the mind_. Still, Eliot hesitated. Usually, Neal surrendered his control when he was ready. This time, Neal had clearly gone over the edge, had his carefully crafted control ripped from him, and he didn’t seem to be coping well.

            Eliot held Neal at arm’s length, waiting until Neal looked at him. Agony burned in his eyes, grief carved deep into the chiseled lines of his beautiful face. Eliot held his gaze for a moment, searching for any sign of hesitation, any hint of equivocation. All he saw was desperation.

            He pointed at Neal’s bed. “On your knees.”

            Neal crossed the room, shedding clothes inelegantly as he went. Eliot watched as he knelt by the side of the bed, hands stretched in front of him, forehead bent to the edge of the mattress, lean muscles almost vibrating with tension. Eliot opened the wardrobe, then slid open the panel at the back. He took out several lengths of hemp rope and a serious flogger with an intricately braided leather handle.

            He worked quickly, silently, binding Neal’s wrists with a double rope cuff that he secured to the head- and footboards. He bound Neal’s thighs together, then his ankles, carefully avoiding the tracking anklet, taking his time with the rope and the knots, the work of wrapping and tying almost meditative. Knife work wasn’t the only thing Eliot had learned in his time in Japan. As he worked, Eliot felt the tension slipping away from Neal’s muscles, his racing pulse starting to slow.

            When Eliot was done with the rope, he put a hand on Neal’s shoulder. Neal took a shuddering breath in, let it out raggedly, and nodded.

            Eliot stepped back and brought the flogger down across Neal’s back in one solid stroke. Neal flinched but made no sound. Another blow, another flinch, no sound. Eliot counted twenty strokes, then paused. He stepped around and lifted Neal’s chin. Neal’s eyes were bloodshot, the piercing blue of his irises almost swallowed completely by his pupils. He seemed to be very far away. Eliot slapped Neal’s cheek lightly. Neal blinked a couple of times and looked up at him.

            “Color,” Eliot demanded.

            “Green,” Neal breathed.

            Eliot let Neal’s head fall back to the mattress and put his hand on Neal’s shoulder again. Neal let out another shuddering breath and nodded.

            This time, Eliot increased speed, rotating his wrist to alternate between Neal’s shoulders and buttocks. Neal no longer flinched at the touch of the flogger. After a few moments, Eliot heard Neal groan. He paused in his swing and waited, a silent signal for Neal to speak.

            “Green,” he moaned.

            Eliot landed two quick, sharp blows on Neal’s ass, drawing a low cry.

            Neal’s voice came a little louder, “Green!”

            Two more blows, harder this time.

            “Green!” Neal cried.

            Eliot swung the flogger four times more, twice to the shoulders, twice to the ass, just under the limit of force he was willing to use on Neal.

            “Goddammit, Eliot, _hurt_ me!” Neal’s strangled cry caught Eliot off guard. Neal didn’t push this way. Neal had _never_ pushed Eliot this way. He always took what Eliot gave, even murmured or pleaded for more, but he didn’t do _this_.

            Eliot narrowed his eyes and stepped over Neal’s prone body. He grabbed Neal by the hair, fingers thrust deep into the thick, dark waves, yanked Neal’s head back, and pressed his lips to Neal’s ear.

            “You are in no position to make demands of me,” Eliot rasped, his voice low and threatening. “I will do what I want to you, when _I_ want to do it. If I want to beat you senseless, I will. If I want to bring you to the edge of consciousness and back, I will. If I want to tease you until you beg, I will. And if I want to leave you here, tied to the bed, on your knees, for Peter to find, _I will_. You already made your choices today, Neal. Now it’s my turn to make them for you. Understood?”

            He felt Neal pull against his hand, trying to nod.

            “Words,” he growled.

            “Understood,” Neal breathed.

            Eliot tightened his fingers in Neal’s hair and turned his head. All the tension had gone out of Neal. Eliot’s reprimand had been exactly what he needed, and he had finally let go. His eyes were clear and calm. Eliot dipped his head and brushed his lips against Neal’s. Neal whimpered and pressed closer. Eliot’s kiss grew deeper, by turns dominant and seductive, willing Neal to relinquish any last shreds of resistance. When he drew back, Neal’s eyes remained closed, and a soft, contented expression had replaced the earlier turmoil.

            Eliot stepped back and raised the flogger again.

            “Color.”

            “Green,” Neal murmured.

            Eliot proceeded to whip Neal’s shoulders and ass until they were striped red, until Neal’s keening moan filled the room. That sound – just on the edge of pleasure and pain – is what did it for Eliot. His cock twitched – he knew what else could get Neal to make that sound.

            He landed two final blows, hard enough to bow Neal’s back and draw an incoherent, triumphant sound from his lips, and then Eliot’s hands were on Neal, caressing the marks he had left, soothing, stroking as he knelt and freed Neal’s ankles and thighs from their ropes. He left Neal’s hands bound but untied them from the footboard. He scooped Neal into his arms, shifted him onto his back on the bed, and secured Neal’s wrists again to the headboard. Neal needed to be anchored, needed to know he belonged somewhere. For now, that place was under Eliot.

            Neal was clearly subspaced. He murmured and moaned, a faint smile on his lips, hips shifting in an unselfconsciously erotic way. Eliot stroked his hair and Neal turned his face, pressing his lips into Eliot’s palm. He reminded Eliot a little of Parker, with a few dashes of Sophie and Hardison thrown in. Thief, grifter, genius. Parker was all lithe, contortionist curves; Sophie soft and lush. Neal was all angles and planes, sculpted like one of the statues he stole. Forged. Whatever. The muscles of his abdomen rippled when Eliot ran his hands over them and straddled Neal’s hips.

            Eliot resented Kate for her thrall over Neal, resented Peter for keeping Neal on a leash, would’ve done anything Neal asked to get him free, help him run. But that wasn’t what Neal wanted. Eliot knew Neal was desperate for Peter’s approval. That the reason he asked for this from Eliot was because he couldn’t ask it of Peter. Eliot suspected Neal’s overwhelming need to belong to someone was also at the root of his obsession with Kate. He had wanted her approval, too, and she had used that to her advantage. Eliot believed Kate had fallen in love with what Neal could get for her, who he could _be_ for her; it had made Neal even more of a chameleon, reading Kate like a mark, forever adapting to who and what she wanted. It was only when Neal was like this, languid and high on endorphins, that Eliot could see the true Neal – expression unguarded, eyes shining with unvarnished desire.

            There had been times when Neal had used his grifter charm on Eliot, but after the job in Brussels had gone bad, Neal and Eliot unsurprisingly in the same place to “retrieve” the same item, Eliot had let Neal follow him home, pinned him against a wall in the hallway, and growled his most menacing threats. Neal had sunk to his knees without asking, clasped his hands behind his back, and bent his head. All artifice stripped away, nothing left but a beautiful dark-haired boy surrendering everything to Eliot, who, for all Neal had known at the time, could have twisted his neck and left him slumped in the corridor for an unlucky housekeeper to find in the morning, could have frog-marched him into a seedy underground club and left him to the wolves, or maybe worst of all, could have simply left him alone on his knees outside Eliot’s door.

            Eliot understood. The boy spent so much time crafting a character, living in someone else’s skin, he wanted to be stripped of his disguise and laid bare to someone, and didn’t Eliot know what that felt like. He had tilted Neal’s chin up, told him to stand, locked both of them in the hotel room for three days and proceeded to find every tell Neal had.

            Now Eliot knew to press the pads of his thumbs into the hollows under Neal’s hipbones, knew what kind of sound Neal would make when he ran his fingernails over Neal’s flanks and pushed the heels of his hands up Neal’s inner thigh from knee to groin, pressing _almost_ too hard, feeling the muscles underneath tense and release. He knew that Neal’s eyes would flutter closed when Eliot closed his teeth around one tiny, perfect nipple. Neal’s body had no more secrets from Eliot, but that didn’t mean Eliot wasn’t still filled with amazement every time this dark-haired Adonis looked at him the way he did, submitted the way he did, _trusted_ him the way he did.

            Neal’s walls had been brought down by the flogging. Now Eliot wanted what was behind those walls. When it was over, he’d help Neal put all the shiny, distracting pieces back together again.

            “Beg me,” Eliot commanded.

            A lazy smile spread across Neal’s lips. In a few hours, he’d have to go back and face what he’d done today. But for now, he belonged to Eliot, and Eliot could make him forget everything, let him breathe, keep him safe.

            Neal locked eyes with Eliot. “Please kiss me... Sir.”

            A genuinely pleased smile creased Eliot’s eyes, quickly replaced with arched eyebrows and Eliot’s trademark stern expression. The honorific had been just a hair too much of an afterthought. “Not yet,” he rumbled.

            “Please touch me, sir,” Neal begged.

            “Where?” Eliot asked.

            “Anywhere you like, sir,” Neal replied.

            Eliot wrapped one big hand around Neal’s throat. No pressure, no movement. Eliot felt Neal’s breath catch then fall out of him in a rush. His eyes fluttered shut and opened again, meeting Eliot’s steel gaze.

            “Thank you, sir,” Neal whispered.

            Ah, now that was better. Eliot shifted his hand to wrap around the back of Neal’s neck and squeezed gently as he bent to touch his lips to Neal’s. He gave Neal the lightest whisper of a kiss before slanting his mouth over Neal’s and taking possession. Neal offered no resistance. Eliot sucked Neal’s lower lip between his teeth and bit it a little less than gently before sliding his tongue over Neal’s. He raked his fingers from Neal’s neck up into his hair, using it to tilt his head back and to the side, leaving a trail of nips and tiny bites across Neal’s jaw and down the sternocleidomastoid muscle, feeling the pulse in his carotid. The blade of a knife here could do so much damage.

            Eliot pushed that thought from his mind and laved the spot with his tongue. Neal groaned and Eliot swept up to swallow the sound. Neal yanked against his bonds, trying to get his hands on Eliot, knowing he couldn’t. Just to reinforce the point, Eliot slid both hands slowly up Neal’s strong, slender arms and wrapped his fingers around Neal’s wrists. He shifted his hips, no longer straddling Neal but stretched out above him, his thickly muscled thighs pinning Neal’s sinewy ones, his hardening cock pressing against Neal’s through a layer of denim, the soft cotton of his shirt sliding over the lovely smooth planes of Neal’s bare skin.

            Neal shifted under him, sliding his lips over Eliot’s earlobe. “I’m yours, Eliot,” he whispered. “Say I’m yours.”

            Eliot smiled a tiny, wicked smile and ground his hips against Neal’s. Neal moaned and hitched his hips against Eliot, trying for more friction. Eliot growled and shifted his hands, one around Neal’s throat, one against Neal’s hip.

            “Did I say you could move?” he rumbled, teeth scraping over Neal’s throat.

            Neal swallowed hard, pulse leaping against Eliot’s mouth. “No, sir.”

            “If you belong to me, don’t you think you ought to ask permission before you move?”

            “So you’re saying I belong to you?” Neal murmured.

            Eliot bit down on Neal’s trapezius muscle, in that sensitive spot where his shoulder met his neck. Neal’s body bucked under Eliot’s and he tried to suppress a moan.

            “Tsk, tsk,” Eliot smiled. “There you go, moving without permission again. You must not take this ownership thing very seriously.”

            Neil gave a frustrated cry, writhing against Eliot and struggling against the ropes around his wrists. Eliot pressed into him, using the weight of his body to calm Neal’s anxious movements. He slid his hands up to Neal’s face, brushed his thumbs over the shadow of stubble on Neal’s jaw.

             “Shh, darlin’,” Eliot breathed. “Don’t fight me.”

             “Eliot, _please,_ ” Neal begged.

             “That’s better,” Eliot smiled against Neal’s mouth, nipping at his lips. He kissed his way down Neal’s throat, dipping his tongue into the hollow at his collarbone, flicking across tiny perfect nipples, sliding hands and tongue over Neal’s beautifully chiseled abdominal muscles. He ran one fingertip over the head of Neal’s cock and down the ridge on the underside, feeling it throb. Eliot shifted off the bed and shucked his clothes, grabbed what he needed from the bedside table, nudged Neal’s legs apart and knelt between them. He put his hands on Neal’s ankles, bare skin under one hand, FBI tracking anklet under the other.

            “Already collared by another man,” he murmured. “Are you sure you know who you belong to, darlin’?”

            It was the wrong thing to say. The tormented expression was back in Neal’s eyes.

             “Aw, hell, Neal, I didn’t mean it like that,” Eliot growled.

            “But I _do_ know, Eliot,” Neal protested, real anguish thickening his voice. “You’re the only one who gets this part of me, the only one who can give me this, whatever _this_ is. I can’t be this person with anyone else, don’t you get it?”

            “I get it, Neal. You have no idea how much I get it.” Eliot shook his head, long hair falling in his face, hiding what he half-hoped Neal could hear in his voice. That Eliot needed this as much as Neal did. That Neal wasn’t the only one looking for a place to belong. With a snarl, he wrapped himself around as much of Neal as he could, gathering him against him, kissing away the sting of his ill-chosen words, or so he hoped, trying to prove to Neal what he couldn’t let himself say.

            He snicked open the evil-looking knife he always carried and sliced through the rope around Neal’s wrists, tossed the knife away, and wrapped his hands around the reddening marks the rope had left behind.

            “You have a choice now, Neal. Who do you belong to?”

            Neal went very, very still. Eliot pulled back slightly so he could see Neal’s face. Neal looked up at him with the biggest, bluest eyes Eliot had ever seen.

            “You, Eliot,” Neal said, voice clear and unwavering. “I belong to you.”

            The thing was, when Neal said it, it was true. He might belong to the Fed in every other way, on every other day, but in this moment, in this place, it was true. Neal wanted to belong – _needed_ to belong to someone, and for now, just for a little while, Eliot could be Neal’s anchor.

            “Damn right,” Eliot snarled. He devoured Neal’s mouth, licking and kissing and biting until the other man writhed and whimpered beneath him. He worked his way down Neal’s body, held in place now by words instead of rope, lingered at Neal’s hips, the little ridge of muscle over the pubic bone, rough hands roaming across the satin of Neal’s skin, finally wrapping his fist around the length of Neal’s cock. Neal spread his legs, opening himself to Eliot, watching with wild eyes as Eliot replaced his fist with his mouth, sliding his lips over Neal inch by torturous inch. As one of Eliot’s hands flicked open the top of a bottle of lubricant and slicked up two fingers of the other hand, he slowly pulled back. Finally, Neal’s cock slipped from his lips, and Eliot wrapped one big hand around the base, holding him in place while he pressed one slick finger and then the other against Neal’s tiny, puckered hole. Neal was eager, greedy even, and Eliot’s fingers slipped easily inside.

            A strangled moan escaped Neal’s lips and Eliot smiled. There was that sound again. Eliot loved that sound. He twisted his fingers and Neal’s hips jerked in response. When Eliot curled his fingers and pressed upward, Neal threw his head back and his whole body convulsed.

            “God, Eliot,” he gasped. “More, please.”

            Eliot shifted and sat back on his heels, keeping his fingers buried inside Neal.

            “Open for me,” he rumbled.

            Neal drew his legs up and back, reached down to hook a hand behind each knee, holding himself wide for Eliot. Eliot slicked up another finger and slid it in beside the first two. Neal’s breath caught in his throat. Eliot tightened his hand around Neal’s cock and withdrew his fingers. Neal made a frantic sound of protest.

            “Shh,” Eliot murmured. “What’d I tell you?”

            “Don’t fight you,” Neal breathed.

            Eliot smiled his wicked smile and slid one finger into Neal again. Then another, and another. Neal’s head dropped back, and his eyes drifted shut. Eliot pulled his fingers out, slid them back in, drew them out, slid them in, fucking Neal faster and faster until Neal cried out.

            “Please, Eliot, I’m gonna come…”

            “No, you’re not,” Eliot growled.

            Neal’s eyes flew open, pinning Eliot with a desperate look.

            “Be good for me, darlin’,” Eliot drawled. “I’m gonna count down from ten, and then you can come.”

            Neal’s frustrated groan vibrated through his whole body. Eliot felt it around his fingers and smiled again.

            Eliot started the countdown, timing it with his rhythmic penetration of Neal’s ass. “Ten… nine… eight…” The arch of Neal’s body grew tighter with every stroke. “Seven… six… five… four… three… two…” He yanked his fingers out and smacked Neal’s ass twice, as hard as he could.

            Neal’s voice fell out of him in a harsh, strangled cry. His cock pulsed in Eliot’s fist and Eliot squeezed, holding back Neal’s orgasm. Neal thrashed on the bed. Eliot held completely still, gradually loosening his grip on Neal’s cock until Neal had calmed and regained a bit of composure. Eliot slowly slid his fingers back into Neal, one by one, and started to stroke Neal’s cock. Neal’s breathing quickened, hips rocking in time with Eliot’s torturous rhythm. Eliot curved one finger to brush over Neal’s prostate with each stroke and Neal’s body shuddered.

            “Look at me, Neal,” Eliot ordered.

            Neal fixed his shocking blue eyes on Eliot, his cupid’s bow lips parted in desperation.

            “One,” Eliot growled.

            Neal came undone, hips thrusting wildly as the orgasm overtook him, clenching around Eliot’s fingers, cock pulsing in Eliot’s fist. Finally, Neal collapsed, boneless, as Eliot’s fingers slipped away. Eliot smoothed his hands over Neal’s quivering hips, over the trembling muscles in Neal’s long, runner’s legs. Neal reached for Eliot, pulling him down for a kiss. Eliot rolled them over, arranged Neal’s slack limbs over his own, and kissed him for all he was worth.

            Neal sighed and burrowed into Eliot’s arms.

            “Yours,” he breathed.

            “Mine,” Eliot rumbled.


	2. Wherein Eliot Knows a Thing or Two about Issues Himself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot could remember only two times when sex with Neal had been about something other than power exchange, seduction, or desperate submission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eliot won't stop talking about Neal in my head...

            Soon, Neal’s breathing deepened. As he slept, Eliot brushed the thick, dark waves from his forehead and admired the sculpted lines of his cheekbones, the dark slash of eyebrow, the full, almost feminine sweep of eyelashes. But even in sleep, Eliot could read the telltale signs of loss, fear, and doubt on Neal’s beautiful face. Beautiful, broken, empty Neal. The hollow place inside him was like a black hole, swallowing attention and affection like a vortex, and Eliot didn’t think the love of any one person would ever be enough to fill it.

            When Neal came to Eliot like this, shattered and needy, the sex was electric. It was as if there was a live wire within him, lighting him up from the inside with frantic, raw energy. Eliot could remember only two times when sex with Neal had been about something other than power exchange, seduction, or desperate submission.

            Once, in a rare early morning moment with a sleepy, satisfied Neal, the mask of the con artist not yet fixed to his face, Eliot had wrapped himself around Neal, rolled him onto his back and slid inside him. Eliot had kept his face buried in Neal’s neck, his heavier, more compact body pressed against as much of Neal’s leaner frame as possible, the slow shift of his hips the only movement. He had felt the hitch in Neal’s breathing, the sound of a stifled sob, and had pressed his lips against the soft hollow under Neal’s ear. Neal had wound his limbs tightly around Eliot and come with a shuddering groan. Eliot had followed, silently, his mouth open against the pulse in Neal’s throat. They had fallen asleep again quickly, and when Eliot woke, Neal was already showered and dressed, fully armored against the world in a Sy Devore suit and wingtip shoes.

            The other time, Eliot didn’t like to think about. Although he should’ve known from Neal’s uncharacteristically guileless behavior, Eliot hadn’t realized that Neal was drugged. And even though Neal had initiated it, when he found out Neal hadn’t been fully aware of his actions that night, Eliot had felt like a monster. No. Though it had been easy, sweet, and gentle, and it had felt honest and right at the time, it had never been the real thing. So what if maybe the drug had just kept Neal from putting up the front he usually hid behind? So what if the Neal he had been with that night was the _real_ Neal Caffrey? It didn’t matter. He had been drugged, so it was wrong. But oh, when Eliot let himself remember… No. Far safer that they stick to their roles. Eliot Spencer, ruthless, fearless hitter; Neal Caffrey, seductive, manipulative con artist.

***


	3. Wherein Things are Left Unsaid

          Neal shifted his thigh against Eliot’s and felt the steel-satin length of Eliot’s cock slide between their bodies. He lifted his head from Eliot’s shoulder and met the hitter’s blue eyes with his own.

          “You’re still hard,” Neal murmured.

          Eliot’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “You noticed that, did you?”

          “Is that because of me?” Neal asked, eyes wide, playing coy.

          Eliot barked a laugh. “Right, like you don’t know you’re the sexiest thing in the western hemisphere.”

          Neal cocked his head and furrowed his brow. “Only the _western_ hemisphere?” he asked.

          Eliot tangled his fingers in the hair at the nape of Neal’s neck and pulled, arching Neal’s neck. “You got something to say about that?” he growled.

          “Nothing to _say_ , no,” Neal breathed. “But if you let me…”

          Eliot drew his tongue up Neal’s neck, sucking at his Adam’s apple, biting his jaw before tilting Neal’s head down and pulling him in for a long, slow kiss. He broke the kiss by twisting his fingers in Neal’s hair again.

          “Show me what you got, darlin’,” he drawled.

          Neal pulled against Eliot’s fingers and Eliot relaxed his grip, keeping his fingers loosely tangled in the thick waves. Neal ducked his head and pressed his lips almost reverently against Eliot’s collarbone. He shifted his weight, straddling Eliot’s thighs, but kept his upper body pressed as close to Eliot as possible. He rocked his hips and felt Eliot’s cock throb against his own. He slid his fingers through the light dusting of hair on Eliot’s chest, feeling the muscles underneath clench. Thick, hard muscles, so different from Neal’s lean ones. Serious muscles from serious work. There were scars, too, here and there, and Neal licked and nipped and kissed every one. He dragged his well-manicured fingernails over Eliot’s nipples and felt his whole body go rigid. Neal loved how sensitive they were. He knew having them sucked felt like a bolt of lightning straight to Eliot’s cock, which pulsed against Neal’s in confirmation.

          Neal shifted again, kneeling between Eliot’s outstretched legs. His hitter quirked an eyebrow at him, and Neal smiled in return. He smoothed his palms up Eliot’s inner thighs and dragged his fingernails back down, feeling the muscles tighten underneath. He bent down, his position something like obeisance, and a smile tugged at his lips at the thought of _literally_ worshipping Eliot’s cock. Neal slid his hands up again, this time flattening one hand over Eliot’s cock, pinning it to his abdomen. The other hand he wrapped around Eliot’s scrotum, making a ring with his fingers tight against Eliot’s body, pulling the skin taut around his balls.

          Neal licked and sucked every millimeter of Eliot’s sensitive sac, shivering at the throaty groan his tongue elicited every time it grazed Eliot’s perineum. Slowly, he worked his way up the underside of Eliot’s cock, smiling when he found it leaking fluid at the tip. Eliot fisted his fingers in Neal’s hair again. If Peter ever found out how talented Neal was at this, Eliot mused, he might actually decide to keep Neal for himself.

          Slowly, deliciously, Eliot’s cock was engulfed by the warm, wet depths of Neal’s gorgeous mouth. Eliot gritted his teeth as Neal’s throat worked around him, fingers tightening convulsively in Neal’s hair. Neal pulled back just as slowly, and Eliot’s big body went rigid, breath stuttering from the sensation of Neal’s tongue working along his length. He couldn’t hold back the guttural sound of pleasure that escaped through his clenched jaw.

          Finally, Neal lifted his head, and Eliot’s cock slipped from his lips with an obscene sound. The hitter shifted himself up on one elbow to get a better view of the golden body bowed before him. Neal’s mouth was curved in a knowing smile, and Eliot did that thing with his eyebrow again, a half-question-half-challenge in his eyes. Neal reached up and covered Eliot’s hand with his own at the back of his head.

          “Hold me down,” he breathed.

          Eliot’s hips bucked reflexively. He knew Neal liked to test his limits, especially when he was feeling vulnerable. He was looking for approval, trying to win it by proving how far he could push himself under the thinly veiled guise of having Eliot in control.

          “Topping from the bottom now, are we, darlin’?” he teased.

          Neal changed tacks, and Eliot watched the shift, marveling at how mutable he could be, even while _actually_ naked under Eliot’s gaze.

          “Use me for your pleasure, sir?” Neal pleaded.

          Who was he kidding? Eliot knew he was, always had been, and always would be just another tool in Neal’s belt, a flesh-and-blood instrument of sadomasochistic satisfaction. He swallowed the bitter thought like something tangible, reminding himself of what exactly his day job consisted. Eliot Spencer, hitter. Didn’t that just say it all. Just what Neal Caffrey wanted - no, _needed_ , his body craving the physical and psychological domination that Eliot could deliver, if only for a few hours. Like an addict with his fix, never sure it would last long enough…

          “Please, Eliot,” Neal breathed. “I’ll be so good…”

          Eliot flexed his fingers in Neal’s hair, tightening again at the nape of his neck for maximum leverage.

          “Suck,” he demanded, voice thick with something neither man wanted to acknowledge.

          Neal swallowed Eliot’s cock, throat working as he pushed past his own gag reflex, taking it to the root. Eliot watched his eyes flutter shut, watering.

          “Take it, Neal. Take it all,” Eliot growled.

          Neal’s body shuddered and he moaned around Eliot’s thickness.

          Eliot pulled him back by his hair and Neal gulped a mouthful of air before Eliot shoved him back down, over and over again, gradually increasing the amount of time he held Neal down. Each time, he murmured approvingly, encouraging his little thief to steal more and more of his self-control. Each time, Eliot watched as Neal struggled harder against his own body’s survival instinct, back bowing with the effort to hold still, fingers clenching against Eliot’s thighs. The last time seemed like an eternity, and Eliot felt the muscles of Neal’s throat pulsing around his cock, sorely testing Eliot’s own limits of self-denial.

          “Look at me, Neal,” Eliot breathed.

          Neal coughed and sputtered around Eliot’s length, still buried to the hilt in Neal’s throat, as his eyes flew open and their gazes locked.

          “Good boy,” Eliot rumbled.

          In one swift motion, Eliot pulled Neal off his cock and sat up, dragging the younger man into his arms. The look in Neal’s eyes was too much to bear, and Eliot crushed his mouth with a bruising kiss. Neal clung to Eliot like a drowning man, clutching at his shoulders, tangling his fingers in the long strands of Eliot’s hair. After a fraught moment, Neal fitted his palms to Eliot’s chest and slowly pressed him back against the mattress. Neal wordlessly straddled Eliot’s hips, rocking up on his knees to roll on a condom and fit the head of Eliot’s cock against his hole, still slick from Eliot’s fingers.

          Eliot didn’t want to see what was in Neal’s expression as he sank down, inch by agonizing inch. Instead, he watched the ripple and shift of Neal’s abdominal muscles and straining thighs, dug his fingers into Neal’s hips hard enough to leave bruises, and when Neal’s head dropped back, mouth falling open on a sigh, Eliot focused hungrily on the elegant column of his throat. Neal’s long, lean body arched away from Eliot, a Rodin sculpture, hips undulating. Eliot’s hands flew up the other man’s torso, wrapped around Neal’s throat, and drew him down, holding him immobilized at arm’s length. Then Eliot drew up his knees and planted his feet, canting his hips for leverage and thrusting up once.

          The sound that escaped Neal’s lips was something between a plea and an acquiescence. He wrapped his hands around Eliot’s wrists and held on as if for dear life. Eliot pulled back and thrust again, driving his cock as deep as possible. He fucked Neal as though the percussion of their bodies was a language to communicate all the things he couldn’t bring himself to say.

          Eliot had been on edge for hours, it seemed, and Neal’s cock was as hard as if he hadn’t just had one of the most powerful orgasms of his life. Eliot slowed his rhythm and pulled Neal down for a kiss before shifting him back into a sitting position. Eliot let his hands glide over Neal’s graceful shoulders, his torso as chiseled as marble, the golden curve of his hip. He rested one hand there and wrapped the other around the length of Neal’s cock, warm as a bronze statue in the midday sun.

          He fixed Neal with a stony look (“that thing with your eyes,” Tara called it) and Neal’s pupils dilated so fast his eyes went almost black.

          “Ride me,” Eliot growled.

          An agonized moan tumbled from Neal’s lips as he began to move. The motion of his hips slid his cock over Eliot’s fingers, slicking them with pre-come, and his eyes drifted shut.

          “Look at me, Neal,” Eliot commanded.

          Neal’s eyes fluttered open again with some effort and Eliot tried not to wince at the boy’s wrecked expression, the raw emotion shining there either the genuine article or the best damn forgery Eliot had ever seen.

          “Ask for permission before you come,” he growled.

          Neal nodded frantically.

          “Words,” Eliot warned.

          “Yes, sir,” Neal gasped. His hands moved erratically, skating over the muscles of Eliot’s abdomen, gliding over his own nipples, clenching in his hair, clutching at his thighs as he rode Eliot’s cock.

          “Hands behind your head, Neal,” Eliot ordered.

          Neal’s eyes snapped up to meet Eliot’s, blown pupils barely able to focus. His breath stuttered in his chest, and for a heartbeat Eliot thought he had misjudged things entirely. But the unmistakable answering kick of Neal’s erection in Eliot’s grip was all the confirmation he needed. Neal raised his arms and locked his fingers behind his head, surrendering to Eliot as he must have done to Peter all those years before.

          Neal shifted his weight, swallowing hard at the change in the angle of Eliot’s cock in his ass, and Eliot tightened his fist around Neal’s length. Neal bit his lip and began to move again.

          “Please, sir…” he gasped.

          “What, darlin’?”

          “Please can I come, sir?” he begged.

          Eliot looked up at Neal, his runner’s body straining with effort, the dark slash of his eyebrows drawn up in something like agony, eyes glazed with an expression unnameable, and he knew the younger man wasn’t the only one with a dangerous addiction. Something thrummed through Eliot’s core and he knew with a cold, dark certainty that he would destroy the entire world before he let anyone take this away from him.

          “Yes,” he breathed. “Come for me, Neal.”

          Eliot anchored him with a strong hand on his hip, and Neal shattered like glass, coming apart as if struck with a hammer. A wrecked sound tumbled from his lips, and his body bowed back and then forward, elbows drawing together but hands never leaving the back of his head as the orgasm convulsed through him, jets of come streaking across Eliot’s stomach.

          Eliot choked down a sudden surge of possessiveness and a vision of the FBI’s best white collar consultant splayed on his stomach, limbs flung wide, Eliot’s come leaking from his ruined asshole. The image, combined with the hot, fist-tight clench of Neal’s ass around Eliot’s cock triggered his own orgasm, and he came hard, growling and thrusting up into Neal over and over again.

          Finally, as Eliot’s breathing slowed and his vision swam back into focus, he reached up, wrapped his hands around Neal’s wrists and drew them down and repositioned them, crossed behind Neal’s back. He pulled Neal’s torso down against his chest and settled him there, briefly reaching between them to dispose of the condom as his cock softened and slid from Neal’s body.

          As they lay in silence, Eliot stroked Neal’s trembling arms and felt more than listened to the thump of Neal’s heartbeat against his chest. He had come to Manhattan to take Neal apart and put him back together again, to anchor him against the inexorable tide of loss and uncertainty, but of the two of them, who was more adrift?

          Neal shifted against him.

          “It was good, right Eliot? I was good?” Neal breathed.

          Eliot clenched his hand in Neal’s hair again, maneuvering him until they were eye to eye. The low rumble of Eliot’s voice was almost subsonic.

          “I’m only going to say this once, so listen carefully,” he snarled. “You’re _so_ good, Neal. You are _good_ , and you’re _mine_ , and I will never let anyone say otherwise.”

          Eliot gathered Neal against him, wrapping around his limbs like armor, knowing it was futile to try to shield him from all that had come before and all that would come after. What good was an anchor if it was itself unmoored?

***

          The knock came a few hours later, as Neal dozed in tangled sheets, Eliot snug against his back, one of Eliot’s big arms thrown over Neal’s waist. Neal wasn’t ready to go back to the real world yet, wasn’t ready to leave the safe circle of Eliot’s embrace, but apparently the real world hadn’t gotten the memo.

          It was June – Alex Hunter was downstairs and June was having trouble keeping her away from Neal’s apartment. Neal barely had time to throw on his rumpled shirt and vest from earlier, hustle Eliot into the secret viewing room, and splash some water on his face before Alex was at the door, Peter and Diana hot on her heels. Mozzie was in danger and Eliot watched as a wave of nausea and fear rolled over Neal again.

          Suddenly, Eliot knew. If he hadn’t been there, hadn’t brought him back from the ledge, he didn’t know if Neal would have had any sanity left to cope with Moz’s situation. Neal shot a glance over his shoulder as he ran for the door, a look that said he knew Eliot would be gone when he returned, that he hoped Eliot understood, that he might even have felt a twinge of relief that they hadn’t had time to say goodbye, to do the awkward dance of leaving with so much left unsaid between them. Eliot knew Neal couldn’t see the nod he gave in response. He knew he couldn’t feel the weight or heat of Eliot’s gaze as he fled. Just like he knew this wouldn’t be the last time Neal Caffrey needed a retrieval specialist to take all his broken little pieces apart and put them back together again.

**Author's Note:**

> This work would not have been possible if I hadn't completely fallen for the story [Play It On Repeat Until I Fall Asleep](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1949382/chapters/4214475) by the incomparable [Song About Exiles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SongAboutExiles/pseuds/SongAboutExiles). I hadn't imagined Neal and Eliot together until I read Chapter 1, and then it all clicked. Thanks for the inspiration!


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